


it's part of me, apart from me

by eternal_elenea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_elenea/pseuds/eternal_elenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>You kept posing / Sat down in the suit / Fixed on up it wasn't you.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	it's part of me, apart from me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Mimsie for the beta and for incredibly long e-mailed discussions! Title and subtitle taken from the Bon Iver's self-titled album. Specifically pertinent is [Perth](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3LWDNE7_yB4).

He can't see anything else when he closes his eyes; wishes that he could, but he's wished for a lot of things over the years. It's late and he can't fight anymore, he's sick of fighting; has lost himself to the white noise of the early morning, lost himself to counting the grooves on the ceiling of his bedroom for hours, until his eyes are dry and red, until he can barely keep them open. He sleeps less than he used to, stays awake deep into the hours of the night, just lying there. He's gotten used to the way that his mind goes blurry in these hours, just like his eyes, but, still, he doesn't sleep amidst the soft haziness. Kim's next to him, dozed off hours ago, and she's splayed across the bed, wrists and elbows askew at stilted angles that make him smile faintly. Kim: beautiful Kim, amazing Kim – Kim whose hair is fanned out against the pillow and mouth is just slightly open and she's never been more stunning. Kim, who should be everything he could ever want.

 _God_ , he wishes. He wishes it could have been different; wishes he could have made himself different; (prays for it to be different). He's never believed in God, but he prayed for this as a boy, curled up under the covers in his room in Barcelona: sunburned skin chafing against the sheets, metronomic ticking of the fan in his ear. He'd pleaded during nights like this one, into the emptiness, when he was sure no one could hear his whispers. Sometimes, instead, he'd end up strewn over the green tile in the bathroom, dry-heaving into the toilet; wanted to claw his eyes out so that maybe the images wouldn't be seared into his irises.

He'd tried for years, wished and prayed and worked (tried to push through it with sheer stubbornness), and he's tired now, knows nothing will make it stop, not even wishing.

Andy imagines that this is what being drunk would feel like. He can barely remember anymore, hasn't touched hard liquor since he was sixteen and Carlos dragged him out to the Spanish clubs, but he thinks this is what it must be like – out of control and a little sick and warm and glorious. No, no, no, not that last one; he must have meant "miserable".

He doesn't want this, he thinks viciously, doesn't want boys, can't want Novak.

He breathes, unsteady and loud, and he tries to stop himself, but all he can see is bristled hair and callused fingers and crinkles around green eyes; a smile that makes him feel singed, glowing like charcoal embers. He sees ribs underneath abs and thinks _too skinny_ but wants to trace those ribs with his fingers, push into Novak's sides, where it just gives way, soft and vulnerable. He imagines trailing his fingers down to Novak's hips, under his waistband, imagines stroking over the jutted bones there, curling his fingers until he's holding Novak in place. He imagines Novak's cock, imagines nuzzling against it, clasping his fingers around it, his mouth sucking over the head. _Fuck_ , Andy thinks.

He's fevered, his lips chapped, eyes unfocused, dilated; can't help but let them slip closed, wonders why he even tries to fight it after all of these years. He wonders why it feels so good to let himself forget that he doesn't want this and the thought slips between his defenses, catches him unaware in the moment between breaths. It settles inside him alongside the dread, even as he tries to push it away.

Kim's close still, right beside him, and she could wake up at any moment, but Andy can't help himself, is already much too far gone. He jacks himself off, hand rough underneath his boxers, hating the way that he gasps, too loud in the silence. Hates the way that he doesn't even try to stop himself, doesn't try to think about breasts and soft curves and delicate hands. It hurts a little bit: he feels stripped raw and he rubs a little too hard, doesn't have any lube. It's sensitive, too sensitive, and he stops himself from writhing, bites at his lips to keep himself from making noise, mouths "fuck" into the silence. He opens his eyes: they're unfocused. He feels himself start to stay "No" as he comes; can't figure out if it was the beginning of "Nole" or whether it just meant "no".

He is exhausted, but his heart is racing, shifting between guilt and pleasure until he can't separate the two; lies still for just a moment. He hates this, hates himself for feeling like this. Hates the way that he thought that he was just the same as all of the others growing up, didn't even realize it himself. Hates the way that he tried to masturbate thinking about girls (just like the others), but he couldn't; couldn't at all until one night he woke up with dirtied bedsheets and barely remembered his dreams besides constant motion and the sound of tennis rackets through the air and the smell of sweat.

He hates the way that he can't stop and no one could ever understand how much, burns white-hot and turns all of his intensity inward, until, at last, he's used up and his stomach turns, desolate. (It reminds him of the way his stomach used to flip in the locker rooms, in the steam of the showers when no one could see where his eyes strayed.) He loves Kim, and that's what makes this worst of all, because she deserves so much better than him – deserves someone that's around more than a couple of months a year, someone who wants her because she _is_ beautiful. He sees the way that she looks at him sometimes, questioning, but he just can't place the look in her eyes and it disappears as quick as he notices until he wonders if it's there at all. He feels resigned and he supposes that she probably does too; knows, even if he's never told her (never told anyone). He doesn't want to lose her, but he doesn't think he gets that right after all these years.

It'll end like this, he thinks: Kim will be the first to say it aloud and Andy will want to protest, will open his mouth to say "no, I'm not" before swallowing the words back, jerking his head in an affirmation. They'll have a row and she'll scream and cry and he'll be unable to do anything but sit there, stiff, and she'll leave. She will accept it quickly, but he never will – will never find the courage to say the words aloud.


End file.
